In the months that followed, I did not look back nor did I yearn to return to my family shack. I had been entrusted to the large man, one 'Umar ibn al-Khattab. His was a bulky figure, a reddish tint, a glowering face and a balding head. He was the tallest man I had ever seen with arms twice my size; his bushy whiskers added to his aura of intimidation.

        I shared a stable with two other boys, both of Jewish tribes. Mundhir, a boy as mischievous as Nawaf if not more so, with an exceedingly endearing grin. He was of the Qurayza as well, though he belonged to another clan. His small stature earned him some teasing from us, as we called him a midget, a dwarf or a number of other slurs. However, what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in agility and sprite. He twisted like an eel evading capture, darting this way and that in the blink of an eye. He was not here of his own volition, as I was. His rogue misconduct had landed him in some trouble among his clan – some allegations of theft. His family had become fed up with his mischief, and as a result, offered him to the Muslims to foster instead.

        Where Mundhir was quirky and jubilant, 'Amr was reserved and stiff. 'Amr, a Jewish boy of the Banu Qaynuqa' two or so years our senior, was sullen, level-headed and wise beyond his years. His collected composure helped curb the immaturity in our tight circle.

        "My mother recently died," he explained his presence among the Muslims. "My father's other wives sought to eliminate me as a threat to my siblings' inheritance. They managed to convince him that to send me to the Prophet was an apt move to curry favor with the new regime."

        At first, I thought his dour mood was a result of his father's abandonment, but as the months stretched and waned, it seemed as though this strict discipline simply came natural to 'Amr.

        But that did not sour the bond we forged in the months following the arrival of the last batch of Qurayshi migrants. The three of us shared the stable overlooking 'Umar's shed, dwelling amid the fading smells of manure and animal dung. The stable was void of any horses or camels; it was bare but for our makeshift straw beds.

        Ours was an immaculate daily routine that began at dawn to commence the day with prayer. In my heart of hearts, I believed in the gods of the Arabs. Every day I woke with a whisper to Hubal, seeking his blessing and ended every night with a silent prayer to Allat, goddess of moon and fertility. I only feigned conversion to the ways of the Muslims, imitating their brisk movements in prayer five times a day. All the while, I would be whispering blessings and invocations to the Arab gods, the true gods.

        We would rise at the break of dawn, pray, and then move to a nearby shed where we would sit at the feet of a man called Bilal ibn Rabah.

        He was commonly referred to as Bilal the Abyssinian, for he was no Arab. His was a complexion darker than any I'd ever seen before, more jet-black than dark brown.

       "He comes from the lands of Abyssinia," 'Amr explained. "Where the Axumite Kingdom reigns."

       "Abyssinia!" I exclaimed.

       "His parents were enslaved when the Abyssinian invasion of Makkah failed," he continued. "He was born to servitude to a Qurayshi chieftain. But when he converted to Islam, his master...he tortured him. Performed heinous deeds in an effort for Bilal to recant, but to no avail. His faith was strong, and he held steadfast."

        He was lanky and tall with bushy black hair and a beard he wore thin on both cheeks. His eyes seemed haunted and distant, perhaps testimony to the difficult life he led prior to his migration. Any sympathy I felt for him immediately evaporated the moment he opened his mouth, however. The three of us would sit on our haunches before the reclining Bilal, and he would harangue us with pious drivel that I needed to suffer for the entire morning. The hours would trudge and plod by as I was forced to listen to his lessons of this ridiculous new faith. Those lessons reminded me of Dawood's incessant preaching back home.

        However, I did enjoy the melody of the call to prayer. Bilal the Abyssinian was a stalwart figure in this fledgling Muslim community, and was blessed with a delightful and serene voice. He would climb the roof of a newly constructed mosque five times a day, and all chattering would still as his sweet voice swept through the sands and grass. His voice was deep, melodious, warm and resonant. Even though I did not intend for a genuine conversion, I basked in the charming splendor of this call to prayer, the adhan. It sent goosebumps up my arms.

        Our routine did not cease once we returned to the stable that served as home, however. Once we completed Bilal's taxing morning lessons, we would return to a courtyard next to the stable where one Zaid ibn Haritha would be standing, ready to instruct us in matters worldly rather than spiritual.

        Zaid had red, clean-shaven cheeks and a warm smile. His dark hair was smooth and silky, swept over his brow, curling around the ears. He had a collected confidence to him and laughing eyes.

        "He was a slave that belonged to the Prophet," 'Amr explained to me once, now thoroughly indoctrinated in the ways of the Muslims. And so, he spoke of them reverently. "The Prophet freed him and adopted him as his own son."

        Though Zaid was generous with his smiles and kind words, he had not taken a liking to me. We would take turns riding the mounts, with Zaid instructing us on our posture and the proper way to grip an animal's reins. He made it look so easy, yet during the first few weeks, we would slip from our saddles, sent sprawling in the mud. Zaid would offer 'Amr and Mundhir words of encouragement and praise but would remain silent when I faltered instead. I did not fail to notice his disapproving gaze on me on more than an occasion.

        Did he know my conversion was in-genuine?

        Nevertheless, I took to the training with vigor, and as the months wore on, I began excelling at all the challenges Zaid laid before me. I preferred riding the mares and I enjoyed feeling the mount's warmth between my legs. As I climbed atop it, I relished the opportunity of a trot just a nudge of my knees away.

        Zaid tutored us in the ways of riding as well as archery. He demonstrated methods of quickly hopping onto the saddle to preserve both time and energy with expert swiftness.

        These pleasant moments were often interrupted by 'Amr's pesky insistence to pray, of course. I would listen to Bilal's tranquil voice in the distance and pretend I had cleansed in the method demonstrated by Bilal. 'Amr would lead us in prayer as our imam.

        Sometimes, Zaid would join in on the afternoon prayers and he would be the imam instead. Instead of praying to the Muslim Allah, I would pray to the real Allah, who was the god of the moon. The Muslims adopted him as their own, corrupting him, abolishing the worship of any other gods along with him. His daughters were the goddesses Allat, al-'Uzza and al-Manat.

        The exercises would end with the adhan for sunset prayers, and we would all shuffle away to the newly constructed mosque, a stout building of palm trunks, beaten clay and palm leaves, to perform this apparently crucial pillar of the religion.

         For the remainder of the day, the three of us would be left to our own devices. We would fill our bellies by rattling palms for their dates or request mutton and grapes from 'Umar in his shed. We would snack while exploring this uncharted section of the city. It was much tidier than ours. Our huts, sheds and shacks were of crude construction, mostly of rotting wood and crumbling mud. The streets were narrow and filthy, bristling with packed crowds, stray dogs or wayward livestock.

        Here, on the other hand, the houses seemed more solid and many of them were made of brick or fine oak, rather than palm trunks. Their roofs were of thatch and palm trees. Similar to the shed where the gathering took place, many of them were painted with bright shades of blue and red and pink, adorned with swirling patterns of black and brown, twisting and spiraling seemingly without end.

      The air smelled purer, the alleyways broader, the streets cleaner and almost always empty. The men here wore elaborate garments of different colors, flowing gowns of linen and the finest fabrics, unlike the bleak, plain and patched gowns the poorer tribesmen wore. There were warriors, some of them slaves or servants, wearing leather jerkins or chainmail over layers of cloth with baldrics slung over one shoulder or scabbards of leather or wood hanging at their waists.

        There fields of cultivated grass and palm trees hovered over the stout houses, casting neighborhoods in long shadows. Beyond the houses, I could see the lush greenery that belonged to the elite of the tribes.

        Through months of limited interaction with the outside world, with no one else to look after us, a sort of camaraderie formed between the three of us. We slept, ate, prayed, rode, exercised and walked together. We shared moments of misery, and we also engaged in a plethora of banter. And so, the relationship between the three of us blossomed from that of uneasy strangers to that of warmth and affinity. Fraternity. Brotherhood.

         Family.

        On one occasion, prowling the streets of this finer district alone, I scuttled through the sand and grass toward this distant farmland. They were overgrown with wheat and barley, and more palm trees disturbed the flat plains here. The reeds were thick, some inches taller than me, but I managed to nudge my way through.

        I heard the scuffle of boots behind me and so I turned to see 'Umar. My brethren and I had limited interaction with 'Umar ibn al-Khattab. I was unsure of our status with him. Were we adopted sons? Were we wards? Was our relationship something else entirely?

        Sometimes he would drop by during our training with Zaid. He would either spectate in silence from afar or chime in with some words of wisdom and advice.

        "A man's word is as an arrow parting a bow," he once said during archery training. "Once he sets it loose, there can be no reversing it. He must embrace the consequences. Otherwise, he is not fit to call himself a man."

        Now, he stalked through grass reeds waving lazily in a gentle gust of night wind. The dark sky above was star-spangled and gloomy. 'Umar's gaze was distant, but he offered me an arm in an invitation to walk. He wore a dark gown of linen over a cloth tunic, clasped by a belt of wool. A turban sat perched on his head, and its tail was sent fluttering in the brief gusts.

        "Speak to me of the Jews," He said abruptly.

        Startled, I cocked my head to one side.

         'Umar sighed in irritation. "The Jews of Yathrib. Tell me of them."

         "There is the Qurayza. I am among them. There are the Qaynuqa' and the Nadir."

          "More."

         "The Jewish tribes built Yathrib. The Aws and Khazraj came from Yemen."

         'Umar raised an eyebrow.

          I flushed in embarrassment and lowered my head. I rummaged through my mind, seeking all the useless information Dawood had bombarded me with.

         "That was many centuries ago. The Jewish tribes were fighting among themselves. They sought aid to gain the upper hand, and so they requested it from the tribes of Arabia. The Aws and the Khazraj answered the call, moving in from Yemen. The land in and around the city is divided between the tribes, and they all have fortresses to protect their crops and kinsmen. I've never seen the inside of any fortresses; I've only heard."

         'Umar chuckled.

        "The Jews grew fat and lazy on this land. Then they hired the tribes as wild dogs to do their bidding. But instead, they tore the tribes from the inside out, while their leaders hide behind walls. I know the story. What about now? Do we have anything to fear from the Jews?"

         "Fear?"

         'Umar sighed. "The Jews do not show willingness to convert."

        I bared my teeth and snorted. "Convert? We already have a god."

        My fervency was more directed at the rumors of a mass conversion among the Aws and Khazraj tribesmen. How could a man abandon the warmth of the gods' worship?

        I paled at the thought of the Arab tribes abandoning the gods for these foreigners. I did not much care for the paranoid monotheist gods. I wanted to return to Qusayy's shed and cling to the ivory idol of Hubal.

        "So do the polytheists. They have many gods. Didn't stop the Aws from converting," he said, as though reading my mind. "One of the prominent Aws chieftains is with Mosa'b now. What's he called? Ibn Mu'adh? By the end of the night, he'll have uttered the words and all the men of the Aws with him. We've already got more than a few Khazraj clans. It won't be long before the rest follow suit. So why do you think the Jew folk will remain steadfast in their faith?"

         'Umar chuckled at my confused reaction and gestured forward.

         "I'm to convert you, but I'm not the man for the job. Move along now."

         "I am converted," I argued.

         'Umar smiled slyly, looking down at me as we passed beneath the shade of a palm tree. Finally, he winked.

         "What are you called again?"

         "Hanthalah. Hanthalah ibn Ka'b."

         "Allah's messenger is of great foresight. He believes Allah will need devout men, good Muslims for the coming generations."

        I remained silent.

        'Umar chuckled wryly. "His words. Mine are that you've a well-built body and a head like a raisin. You will make many widows and orphans. I will make sure of it."

        Hands clasped behind his back, he stopped at the peak of an incline, the fall below precipitous. The fertile farmland and the rich districts of Yathrib were built on a slight hill overlooking the rest of the city. 'Umar was studying the view, gazing upon the torchlight in the city below, flickering like moths. It had never occurred to me that the elite could literally look down upon us anytime they wished.

      We stood in silence for a while, studying the lights below.

       "You have a fire in you," He rumbled at last.

        I looked up at him, incredulous.

        "I'll make a fighter of you yet."

        I snorted. "You're making a Muslim of me."

        'Umar chuckled. "Thought you already were."

        There was a brief pause before he continued.

        "We need swords. As many as we can get. For the wars to come. We must carve out Allah's kingdom."

       "Wars to come? They're just raiding parties."

        I was aware that there were spoils to be gained by joining the raids on passing Qurayshi caravans, rumbling along north from Makkah to the cities in the Levant.

       'Umar snorted in derision. "Raiding parties? You have a raisin for a head and a pea for a brain. All tribes must be united as one. Only then will the true fight begin. After we scour the sands of evil in men's hearts. The fighting cannot begin before the Arabs are cleansed."

        I did not understand a word he'd said, but I took note of the hunger in his eyes; the unsettling ambition that was common among these muhajireen. In hindsight, I must say they had vision and their long-term planning was admirable.

       "When I was a merchant, I marveled at the great cities of the Romans in Syria," he went on, speaking in a whisper as if to himself. "I thought I was dead and had entered the gods' embrace when I entered Damascus. It remains the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. It is the jewel of the Romans.

        The Romans and the Persians are in eternal struggle, yet their cities remain a specimen of heaven. They look down on us as we look down on the simple nomads now, those who cling to the old ways.

        They think of us as barbarians and savages; perhaps they're not mistaken. But now, we've found the truth, the righteous path. When the dawn of war arrives, there will be a reckoning. We will need men of fortitude and faith. Thousands to spill forth from these plains into the heart of so-called civilization and storm their gleaming cities and cut their storied armies down.

        To show the bastards just how barbaric we are."

        I still did not understand. I was a child born in the heart of Arabia and I had only ever heard tales of the Romans and Persians. They were as grand as gods to my imagination, as ancient as the sands we trod upon. They were the two titans of the world, locked in an eternal struggle with warriors as numerous as the sand, each one of them mighty as a god of war.

        It was unfathomable to me, to not only fight them, but to expect to win as well. I looked up at 'Umar ibn al-Khattab as if he was mad. In that moment, I genuinely believed he was mad. He believed this ragged group of immigrants fleeing from the sharp blades and scathing words of their own tribe would not only subjugate the entirety of Arabia but rise to challenge the Romans and Persians? What had I gotten myself into by flocking to this man? Fists and punches I could understand, but I did not relish the company of madmen.

        'Umar only sighed in exasperation and shook his head at my blank expression.

        "Tomorrow, you resume training. Get some rest."